


Dear

by Potrix



Series: Unpredictable [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Change Of Opinion, Established Relationship, Fear, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, Hatred, M/M, Nobody Likes Witchers, Ostracization, POV Geralt, POV Multiple, Soft Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: The Witcher has pitched his tent in the farthest corner of the camp, barely even inside the clearing they’d decided to use as a resting spot for the night anymore. Mother says it’s because Witchers are protectors, that it’s in their nature to put themselves between the monsters of the world and everyone else.Romriel isn’t convinced.Or; 5 times seeing the good in Geralt makes someone change their mind about Witchers + 1 the time the wrong people mistake Geralt's human side for a weakness.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Unpredictable [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593292
Comments: 877
Kudos: 5799





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know a fandom/pairing has its claws in you deep when you post twice in as many days. 
> 
> And, look. We need more fics about people (other than Jaskier) seeing just how fucking adorable Geralt actually is, the huge softie. And someone has to write them. 
> 
> Technically set in the same 'verse as [Unpredictable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135585) but can definitely be read as a standalone fic.

1

The Witcher has pitched his tent in the farthest corner of the camp, barely even inside the clearing they’d decided to use as a resting spot for the night anymore. Mother says it’s because Witchers are protectors, that it’s in their nature to put themselves between the monsters of the world and everyone else. 

Romriel isn’t convinced. 

They were lucky, he can admit grudgingly, that the Witcher and his human came across them when they did. Romriel has become handy with his bow, decent at wielding his dagger, but he knows he’s no match for a pack of wolves almost as starved as them. 

He’s grateful, he supposes, if not for his own sake, then for the lives of Mother and his sisters. He doesn’t know how he could’ve forgiven himself if something had happened to them; he’s the one who needs to step up and be responsible, now that Father isn’t with them anymore.

Still, though. That doesn’t mean Romriel has to like the Witcher. 

Mother has a big heart. Too big, at times. She’s always believed there to be good in everyone, without exception, no matter how the rest of the world might see them. 

Romriel is sceptical. 

He hasn’t met any Witchers before, but he’s heard stories. Epic tales of slaying beasts and bedding maidens, yes, but just as many whispers about killing innocents for coin when some human or other decided they were too different, too strange, too other to be allowed to live. 

There were Witchers around when the Elves were driven out of their lands. Romriel is too young to remember properly, but not young enough to not see the disgust humans regard him with, to not hear the harsh words directed at him and his family. 

Definitely not too young to wonder if there’s Elven blood on Witcher steel as well. 

Nonetheless, Mother and the other village elders had decided to hire the Witcher and the human to accompany them for the rest of their journey to the markets. Paying them most of what little coin they will make by selling their wares and parting with a huge chunk of the precious little food they still have. 

Romriel doesn’t flinch when the Witcher takes a seat on a stump across the fire, but he does watch him carefully. He sends Hea and Hala a sharp look that has them pout at him, but obediently move their game a little ways away from the fire and the Witcher. 

They don’t know any better, yet. They’ve rarely seen any humans, so far; they think all of this is nothing short of fascinating. 

The Witcher unsheathes one of his swords. Romriel tenses and doesn’t let his guard down completely even when all the Witcher does is pull a whetstone from his pack. He’s seen the Witcher take down those wolves, he’s well aware that he could strike him down in the time it would take Romriel to stand.

Gaze never leaving the Witcher, Romriel keeps eating his bread. 

He may not be trustworthy, but Romriel can’t deny that the Witcher is captivating. His hands are steady and sure as they work, his otherworldly eyes fixed firmly on his task, although Romriel gets the impression he’s aware of everything that’s happening around them. 

Like a hunter. A predator. 

The only thing breaking the calm, composed atmosphere surrounding the Witcher is the way he, every few minutes like clockwork, has to blow the hair out of his eyes. It clings to his rough cheeks for a while, then slowly falls forward again, obstructing his view. 

Romriel hides an involuntary smile behind his bread. 

His own dark hair is braided neatly down his back, well out of the way. If the Witcher were anyone else, Romriel would offer his assistance; he gets enough practice doing this for Mother and his sisters that he’s quick and efficient at it by now. 

But, alas, Romriel would prefer to keep both his hands. 

The human, however, doesn’t seem to share Romriel’s hesitations. 

He’s smiling, looking flushed as he joins the group by the fire, setting his lute down to lean against a tree. It’s Elven. Romriel’s curious as to where he got it, but afraid of the answer at the same time. 

Romriel’s breath catches when the human puts his hands on the Witcher’s shoulders, giving him a shake. “Look at you over here,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping from his every word, “being chatty, making friends.” 

The Witcher doesn’t so much as look up at the human. “Hmm.” 

For some reason, the short grunt makes the human’s smile widen. To the group sitting around the fire, he says, “He says he’s overjoyed to be in your lovely company.” 

A few snickers, a giggle from one of the younger girls. 

The Witcher continues to sharpen his sword. 

Conversation picks up again, though Romriel’s still focused on the Witcher and the human. After a moment, the human’s hands leave the Witcher to rummage through the pockets in his breeches, until he gives a triumphant, “Ha!” when he finds a short leather string. 

He separates two strands of the Witcher’s hair from either side of his face with practiced motions, gently pulling them together at the back of the Witcher’s head. There, he neatly ties them together with the string.

“There!” he proclaims proudly. Romriel watches, belly full of dread, as the human reaches around the Witcher to nudge his chin, waiting for the Witcher to tilt his head back so he can direct his smile down at him. “You’re welcome.” 

The Witcher blinks, slow. Then, “Hmm.” 

Laughing, the human knocks a knuckle against the top of the Witcher’s head before taking a seat next to him, close enough for their sides to brush. He picks up his lute and the Witcher shifts, never once stopping in his work, to give him enough room to start strumming a few strings. 

And then, for the briefest of moments, the Witcher’s piercing stare meets Romriel’s, confirming Romriel’s earlier suspicions; the Witcher is well aware of his surroundings. Romriel’s heart is lodged somewhere in his throat, but then the human theatrically clears his throat and the Witcher looks away.

When the human begins to sing, one corner of the Witcher’s mouth curls up into what could, possibly, almost be called a smile. 

(Long after the Witcher and the human have departed, when he and his family are well on their way back to their village, Romriel finds a small whetstone and a leather knife wrap in his bags. 

Maybe, he allows, not every Witcher is all bad.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's mood: teenagers sneaking out to go down to the pub for as long as pubs have existed.

“—should yet be traversable, this time of year. And with that Witcher having just come through from the East, we can surely hope the path to be free of—”

Orla perks up at that, intrigued despite herself. 

Father lamenting about the state of the roads, as he's wont to do, tends to make her slip away into her own thoughts to save herself from the boredom of it. This, however? This is very interesting indeed.

She waits until Father has paused to take a bite of food to ask, affecting an indifferent air, “A Witcher, all the way out here?” 

Harrumphing, Father shakes his head and grimaces. “Has inquired about room and board at The King's Head, ol' Ludwig tells. Wouldn't know what a Witcher thinks he might find in a modest, Gods-fearing town as ours, but I suppose—”

“Love, not with the children present,” Mother chides, laying a gentle hand on Father's arm. “It's not decent.” 

Orla rolls her eyes while Finna huffs, clearly annoyed by the suggestion that she's too young to be included. Father goes back to complaining about the bridge repairs he's convinced are being stalled on purpose, a scheme to increase taxes, but Orla's mind is whirring with half-formed plans already. 

One of the kingdom's main trade routes runs through their town, so they get all sorts of people stopping by for all sorts of reason. Witchers are rare, though, reclusive and never in one place for long. 

Who knows when, or if, Orla might get another chance at seeing one in the flesh? No, she most definitely can't miss this one. 

She finishes her plate as quickly as possible without making it seem as if she's hurrying, then waits another few minutes before she asks, “May I be excused?”

Finna regards her with a highly sceptical look, but Mother smiles and nods. “Of course,” she allows and accepts the kiss Orla brushes against her cheek, “good night, dear.”

After hugging Father and poking her tongue out at Finna behind his back, Orla scurries upstairs to get ready. She digs the pair of trousers Mother and Father don’t know about out of the chest under her bed, changing into them and a simple blouse. She’d love to spruce herself up for the occasion, but Orla’s learned the hard way that clothing for sneaking out at night should be practical, above all else. 

She doesn’t want to spend almost half of her monthly wages on getting the tears in her dress mended so Mother won’t get suspicious. 

Again. 

Jumping from her bedroom window down into the haystack proves no challenge, even if it means she’s still picking bits of hay out of her hair when she reaches the town square. She hops up onto the edge of the well, considering her options. 

It’s dark out already, most folks have just finished supper, which should mean—

“Orla!” Ninette waves wildly, grinning hugely. “So you’ve heard?” 

Filip and Triam are with her, both with equally excited looks on their faces. 

Orla bounces up, unable to stay still. “The tavern? Father says he heard ol’ Ludwig say the Witcher was asking about a room at the inn around the corner.” 

“Wonder what a Witcher is doing ‘round these parts,” Triam muses as they start walking. “There’s been no word of anything that might need killing.” 

“Oh!” Filip exclaims, grabbing at Triam’s sleeve, doing something ridiculous with his eyebrows. “Maybe he’s come for a woman?”

Triam shakes him off, jostling him. “Don’t be dumb. Everyone knows Witchers don’t feel nothing.” 

“It’s true, they’re more beast than man,” Ninette agrees, though she’s smirking in that way Orla knows means something is brewing in that wicked head of hers. And, indeed, “Someone told me they resemble them as well. You know, down below.” 

Filip snorts so hard he nearly trips over his feet while Triam begins to cough, having to bend over and hold onto his knees in order to catch his breath. 

Ninette and Orla are still giggling as the push open the door to the tavern, linking arms so they won’t lose each other in the crowd. It’s sizeable for a weekday night, though it becomes clear why soon enough, once the bard standing up on a bench starts playing his lute. 

“Over there,” Triam whispers with a nudge to Orla’s side, nodding at the fireplace. 

Orla follows his gaze and, yes, sure enough, there the Witcher is. 

By a stroke of sheer luck, the four of them find a small, empty table reasonably close and settle in. Filip goes to fetch them a mug of ale each while the others keep watching the Witcher, as subtly as possible. 

“I thought he’d be,” Triam starts, cuts himself off, shrugging helplessly. 

“More monstrous?” Ninette offers and Triam sighs out an almost disappointed, “Suppose so, yes.” 

The boys are soon more invested in their ale than the Witcher in the corner and when the bard strikes up the jaunty tune about that one duke no one likes, the one mocking him relentlessly, Ninette loses interest as well. 

Not Orla, though. 

Something about the Witcher is drawing her in. Keeps her shooting glances over at him every once in a while. 

She’d imagined him looking more strange. It’s easy to tell he’s no ordinary human, of course, what with the eyes and the hair, but all in all he seems almost normal. Big and scarred and angry-looking, but not too different from any other of the men Orla’s seen returning from battles and wars. 

It’s Orla’s turn to go get them another round when the bard announces that he’ll be taking a short break. She’s waiting by the counter as the bard approaches the Witcher, close enough now that she can hear the bard when he says, “I’d complain about you brooding all by your lonesome self while I’m playing my heart out, but unfortunately it suits you quite well. Darn it.” 

The Witcher says nothing. The bard does not seem to mind.

“You know, I can’t help but wonder if you don’t actually appreciate my musical genius—”

At that, the Witcher quirks a brow as if to say, “You think?” 

The bard tsks, hands on his hips. “Rude. Very rude, indeed.” 

Then, to Orla’s shocked surprise, he plops himself down right on the Witcher’s thigh, stabbing a finger into his chest to emphasise his point. 

There have been plenty of women fluttering their lashes at the Witcher tonight, dimpling and simpering at him, but the Witcher had ignored them, at best, or sent them near running with a grunted, dispassionate, “No,” each time.

She assumes the same fate to befall the bard and, for a moment, it sure looks like it when the Witcher straightens out his legs. The bard begins to slide off, yelping in offense, but before he goes too far and falls, the Witcher fists a hand into his doublet to tug him back in close. 

It has the bard laughing giddily. “You’re in a mood tonight,” he hums as he loops an arm around the Witcher’s shoulders to steady himself. Quiet, more serious, he continues, “Say the word and we’ll head back out.” 

The Witcher shakes his head, just once. “I’m fine.” 

The bard beams. He pats the Witcher’s chest as he jumps up, fingers trailing down his arm before he moves back to the center of the room. The people whistle and cheer when he climbs up onto a table, lute held up high into the air. 

Orla looks back at the Witcher. 

He’s watching the bard, eyes crinkled at the corners. 

(The bard’s head is resting against the Witcher’s shoulder, mouth open ever so slightly as he snores softly. The Witcher’s arm is snug around him.

Orla smiles to herself and slips out the door after her friends.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: Do you know people think Witchers have monster dicks?  
> Geralt, eyes closed, praying for strength: They what.


	3. Chapter 3

It's the almighty ruckus outside his shop that alerts Drorn to the Witcher's arrival. 

Drorn snorts to himself and continues skiving his piece of leather, motions smooth and practiced. The village elders had debated for days on how to get rid of the wyvern having made itself at home in the main grain cellar, finally coming to the conclusion that outside help was required after the wyvern had crippled one too many of the stupid nincompoops attempting to play hero and slay it. 

Not everyone had been thrilled when it had been announced that a Witcher would be contracted to kill it. Villagers had protested in front of the mayor’s house, then started barring their doors and nailing their windows shut when the mayor had refused to overrule the elders. 

As if a few planks of wood could stop a Witcher on a mission. 

Drorn has stayed silent on the whole Witcher business for the most part. The villagers are still wary of him even after months of him living amongst them and he has no interest in turning them against him by offering his opinion. They’re reluctant to listen to a dwarf’s advice on a good day—unless it’s about weaponry or blacksmithing—and he doubts they’d take to it kindly if he told them they’re acting foolishly. 

A Witcher isn’t inherently dangerous, not if one doesn’t forget what he is and is not. No weapon is, if one knows its capabilities and its limitations, how to maintain and wield it. Yes, a Witcher would have little trouble razing their whole village to the ground were he so inclined, but Witchers don’t slaughter for fame or pleasure; they work for coin and dead men don’t pay. 

Hold up your end of the contract, don’t mistake them for real, feeling humans and, in Drorn's experience, you won’t have any problems with Witchers. 

Weapon and armour sales have spiked over the last few days, however, with the people working themselves into a panicked frenzy, so Drorn isn’t complaining. Some extra coin will go a long way towards fixing his house and shop up for the winter. 

He looks up when the door to his shop bangs open, putting down his tools and rounding the workbench. The Witcher’s face is grim as he flicks a chunk of half rotten tomato off his shoulder, glancing around the room before he looks at Drorn. 

“Well, that was rather unpleasant,” comes a voice from behind the Witcher, followed by a man stepping around him into the shop proper. He’s looking down at his clothes with a frown, plucking at his ruined jacket. “I’m telling you, Geralt, I’ve half a mind to turn right back around and let those brutes deal with—oh!” 

The man is blinking at Drorn, mouth hanging open, before he visibly shakes himself and offers a sheepish smile. “Apologies, I wasn’t expecting to come across a non-human after that astoundingly warm welcome we just received.” 

Drorn waves a dismissive hand, gesturing for them to join him at the counter. “Being the best blacksmith in the kingdom has its perks,” he says with a wink, making the human laugh. “Now, how may I help you today, sirs?” 

At that, the Witcher takes over, explaining his plan to chase the wyvern out of the narrow cellar, ending with, “Fighting it in an enclosed space is a recipe for disaster.” 

Considering all the men who’ve tried so far have barely come away with their lives, Drorn can’t help but agree. He eyes the two swords strapped to the Witcher’s back. “You don’t seem to be in need of weapons.” 

“Rope,” the Witcher says and reaches into his pack, dropping a few coins on the counter between them. “Strongest kind you’ve got.” 

Drorn can feel his eyebrows raise in surprise. “You plan on capturing it?” 

“From what I’ve been told, it’s nowhere near big enough to be fully grown,” the Witcher says, almost challenging. “If I had to guess, I’d say it got lost and can’t find its way back to its nest. Letting it loose in the forest will give its parents a chance at finding it.” 

“And the mayor approves of this approach?” Drorn ask, though he can’t hold back an amused smile. 

The Witcher inclines his head. “I’m being paid to remove the wyvern from the village. The contract doesn’t include any specifics.” 

Drorn laughs at that, shaking his head. “You won’t be making yourself any friends here, Witcher.” 

“They’ll run out of rotten fruit eventually,” the human says and shrugs, grinning a little. “Well. I certainly hope so, at least.” 

“Come on,” Drorn raps his knuckles against the counter, still chuckling, “I’ve got just the thing you need.” 

Despite their obvious fear and disgust, most of the villagers follow Drorn, the human—Jaskier, as he’d introduced himself—the Witcher and the two guardsmen chosen to assist the Witcher to the grain cellar barely an hour later. They keep their distance until the Witcher’s vanished inside before shuffling closer, intrigued and curious. 

“What do we do if he dies?” asks Ingrid, the baker’s wife. “He was paid half the coin in advance, we won’t be able to get it back if the beast kills him.” 

Drorn can see Jaskier’s jaw go tight, hands clenching at his sides. He says nothing, though, eyes trained on the door leading to the cellar. 

“You,” Hugo says, a few uneventful minutes later, clapping a hand on Jaskier’s back, “what’s he got on you, huh? Been wonderin’ about that ever since you rode in together. You in his debt, owe him money?” 

“Poor lad,” whispers one of the older ladies standing at the back of the crowd, just about loud enough that Drorn, and probably Jaskier, can hear her. “Being forced to serve that monster, it’s not right.” 

In all honesty, Drorn is almost glad that the wyvern chooses that moment to burst outside with an angry roar, making the villagers scatter with screams and curses. 

The Witcher is hot on its heels, eyes pitch black and teeth bared in a snarl. He throws himself at the wyvern, uncaring of the bleeding cut on his forehead, holding on tightly to its back as the guardsmen creep closer with the rope. They throw it over the wyvern successfully, but then the wyvern whips around, suddenly and sharply, and its tail sends one of the guardsmen flying before he crumples to the floor lifelessly. 

The other guardsman stills in shock, then drops his end of the rope and runs. 

“Cowards,” Drorn hisses, already moving before he’s made the conscious decision to do so. 

He jumps to grab one end of the rope, giving Jaskier a grateful nod when he takes hold of the other end. Drorn’s work gloves afford him enough purchase to pull the rope tightly across the bucking wyverns back while Jaskier is tugging from the other side and it only takes a few moments until the wyvern begins to still. 

The Witcher uses the opportunity to grab a vial out of his pack, upending it over the wyverns forehead with a few murmured words. The wyvern screeches, flails one more time and then goes limp, slumping to the ground. 

Breathing hard, Drorn sits back and closes his eyes. The muscles in his arms and back are screaming at him and his hands are aching something fierce, but he’s smiling nonetheless, feeling accomplished. 

He opens his eyes again when he hears the Witcher ask, “Are you all right?” 

He’s kneeling beside Jaskier, who’s gingerly poking at his bloodied palms. Drorn winces in sympathy. 

Jaskier glances up at the Witcher, quirking an eyebrow. “I should be asking you that,” he murmurs, fingers careful as they ghost across the Witcher’s face. “You’re the one bleeding all over the both of us.” 

“Kill it!” The mayor and the elders are moving closer again, wide-eyed and clearly still afraid. “What are you waiting for, Witcher?” 

“Bring me a cart,” the Witcher demands as he stands, helping Jaskier up as well. “We’ll take it to the forest on the hill and set it free.” 

“What?” the mayor yells, outraged. “We paid you to get rid of it, now kill the—”

He falls quiet at the Witcher’s growl which, Drorn thinks, is the smartest thing he’s ever seen the man do. 

“A cart,” the Witcher repeats, voice sounding barely human at all, “and the rest of my pay.”

Setting the wyvern free is much less trouble than capturing it, but Drorn still feels exhausted once they make their way back to the village. The Witcher appears to be mostly unaffected, though Jaskier is clearly flagging as well, his steps slow and sloppy. 

“Witcher,” Drorn says, when they reach the main road just outside the village, “I have a spare room. Feel free to use it for tonight, at least. Get some rest, a few bites to eat.”

Jaskier lets out a moan, head tipped back and eyes closed. “Geralt. A real bed.” 

The Witcher slips an arm around his waist, propping him up easily. To Drorn he says, quiet but with genuine warmth, “Thank you.” 

(The Witcher and Jaskier have retired for the night already once Drorn’s finished washing up the dishes from their supper. The door to the spare room is still slightly ajar, though, and Drorn walks over, meaning to bid them good night, but stops at the sound of the Witcher’s voice.

“Jaskier, let me.” 

Drorn takes another step closer to see what's happening, concerned when Jaskier grunts, clearly pained. 

Jaskier is sitting on the bed, face pulled into a grimace, the Witcher crouched low between his legs, one of Jaskier’s hands held in his. He’s rubbing something over the scrapes on Jaskier’s palm, then turns Jaskier’s hand around and presses a kiss to its back. 

Drorn moves along to his bedroom without saying anything, felling a hot curl of shame in his gut. 

A weapon, yes, but also so much more.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drorn: Witchers are pretty all right, I guess. They'll fuck in your spare bed and ruin your sheets, but apart from that they're cool.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, but work has been A Bitch™ lately.

Everyone has been telling her she must be mad to even consider this an option and right at this moment, as she's approaching the figure looming in the darkest corner of the tavern, Yasemin is inclined to agree. 

Yes, she’s quite possibly mad. 

But also incredibly, increasingly desperate. 

Yasemin is no fool, she knows what the talk around town had been, at first, when her Bran hadn't returned as agreed. Sleeping off the drink somewhere, some had teased, or forgetting his responsibilities between a pretty whore’s legs. Laughed at her, they had, when Yasemin had insisted that Bran wouldn’t shame her and their family like that. Thought her naive and thick. 

Then some hunters had found Bran’s cart, abandoned in the middle of the road with the horse still harnessed and none of the wares touched at all. The half-hearted murmurs of thieves had died down quickly, given the circumstances, and now everyone seems in agreement that something terrible must have happened, though no one is willing to take the risk and investigate. 

So, mad as this one may be, what other choice is there?

Yasemin is girding herself as she walks up to the table, making her voice as steady as she’s able to as she greets, “Master Witcher.” 

Still, she can’t help the shudder that runs down her back when the Witcher looks up at her with eyes that are anything but human. It takes considerable effort to not move a step back and her hands are shaking as she fumbles the small coin purse out from under her cloak. 

“We don’t own much,” she admits quietly, setting the purse down on the table between them, “but we need your help.” 

The Witcher ignores the coin and Yasemin’s heart begins to sink. She’d gone and sold everything they could spare, gotten into debt on top of that, praying that it would be enough to buy the Witcher’s services. If it’s not, then Bran is as good as lost. 

Yasemin startles at the sound of wood scraping against wood, glancing down at the stool being pushed out from under the table, then back up at the Witcher, heart beating wildly with renewed hope.

“Sit,” the Witcher says, brusque. “Talk.”

Yasemin does so gingerly, folding her hands in her lap to hide the way they still tremble. She speaks haltingly, at first, only dares to take short glances at the Witcher, but she grows bolder the longer she’s allowed to go on without any big interruptions. The Witcher, for his part, listens attentively and only cuts in once or twice to ask for clarification or additional information. 

“Hmm,” he grunts once Yasemin is done relaying what little she knows. He stands and picks up the purse, stashing it away. “I’ll find you once I know more.” 

With that, the Witcher strides out of the tavern, leaving Yasemin to blink after him for a long, confused moment, before she quickly leaves as well, hurrying back home feeling conflicted. 

If there is someone in town who has the skill and knowledge to find Bran, it definitely is the Witcher, there is no doubt about that. There is no telling, however, what he might demand in return. If luck is on Yasemin’s side for once, the coin she’s already paid will be satisfactory, though if it’s not, there will be no stopping the Witcher from taking whatever he desires. 

And Yasemin is petrified of what a man who isn’t truly a man, a being with no human soul, could possibly want to take from her family. If regular men are nasty enough to ask her into their bed in return for food or suggest she sell her own child into servitude for some additional coin, what will a Witcher deem appropriate compensation for his work? 

Ana, thankfully, is where Yasemin had left her earlier, sleeping peacefully by the warm stove in the kitchen. Yasemin tucks the blanket a little tighter around her and brushes some wayward curls out of her face, letting herself linger. 

She’s fighting for Bran and she’ll do the same for Ana all over again. Even if it means taking on a Witcher. 

It’s a mere few hours later, the night still cold and dark, when Yasemin’s woken by the front door being thrown open. She’s halfway to the kitchen in an attempt to hide Ana and herself when she hears a familiar voice say, “Here, over here, lay him down.”

“Bran?” Yasemin chokes on a sob when she rounds the corner and Bran is right there, helping another man lower the Witcher onto their table. “By the Gods, Bran!”

Bran looks unharmed, if somewhat on the pale side, and he holds Yasemin back just as tightly as she’s clutching at him, hands fisted into the back of her nightdress. “Oh, my love.” 

The Witcher, on the other hand, is in a dreadful state, Yasemin notices. There’s blood all over him, so much of it that it takes her a moment to notice the actual wounds on his neck. They look suspiciously like teeth marks. 

“Vampires,” Bran says, following her gaze. “It was,” he sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head as he trails off helplessly. “It was bad.”

He smiles weakly when Yasemin takes his hand, but he squeezes back gently. Then, watching the Witcher and the other man, who’s busy pulling the Witcher’s unresponsive form out of his armour, Bran decides, “Let’s fetch some hot water. It’s the least we can do.” 

Jaskier, the Witcher’s friend, accepts the bowl of water with a grateful nod. Yasemin hesitates for a moment, but then she picks up a washcloth and starts to carefully clean the blood off the Witcher’s bruised knuckles while Bran stokes the fire and gathers blankets. 

The Witcher wakes as Jaskier begins sewing shut the deepest of his wounds, though all he does is grunt and blink sluggishly until his eyes land on Jaskier, which seems to reassure him into lying still once more. 

Yasemin switches hands and asks, curious, “Are you a healer, then?” 

“Ha, no.” Jaskier chuckles to himself, fingers pulling torn skin together in practiced moves. “This is simply one of the many unexpected skills one picks up while travelling with someone who stabs things and gets stabbed by things on a near daily basis. Besides,” he looks up, winking at Yasemin, “it’s not so different from mending clothes.” 

This time, Yasemin thinks, the Witcher’s grunt sounds offended. 

“Oh, hush,” Jaskier says as he bites off the end of a thread. “Let me finish in peace.” 

The Witcher drifts in and out of consciousness, but Jaskier has no trouble filling the silence. He’s more than happy to regale Yasemin with the story of Bran’s rescue, though Yasemin soon wishes she hadn’t asked in the first place. Jaskier must realise as well, because he smiles an apology and starts a tale about fairies that’s surely too ridiculous to be true. 

Once Bran returns with the blankets, he and Jaskier half-carry the Witcher over to the fireplace before Bran hurries off again to grab more wood. Jaskier arranges the Witcher to lie comfortably and then Yasemin shows him to the washroom so he can clean himself. 

It’s afterwards, when she goes to grab the herbs for some anti-inflammatory tea, that Yasemin sees Ana’s spot by the stove has been abandoned. The panic is instant and Yasemin all but runs back to the main room, only to freeze at the sight she’s greeted with. 

Ana has made herself at home right in the Witcher’s makeshift bed, her little wood figurines spread around her. She’s waving one at the Witcher, who is squinting blearily, introducing it before grabbing another one and doing the same. Then she offers the kitten Bran had carved for her last name day to the Witcher and Yasemin watches with bated breath as the Witcher takes it, holding it gingerly in one big hand. Apparently satisfied, Ana picks up one of the horses and begins walking it across the Witcher’s chest, making sounds that only barely resemble the actual animal. 

The Witcher doesn’t seem to mind, but Yasemin still crosses the room to go grab a protesting Ana. “He needs rest,” Yasemin explains, going with a half-truth. “As do you, my sweet.”

The last thing Yasemin hears as she carries Ana back into the kitchen is a quiet, raspy, “Sleep well, little girl.” 

(Yasemin is surprised to see Jaskier and Geralt when she returns from fetching water from the well. They’d made their farewells earlier that afternoon, with Geralt finally healed enough to stand and walk by himself. 

He’s leaning against his horse, though, Yasemin can see, while Jaskier is crouched down in front of Ana, talking to her softly. Yasemin watches as he offers her something she can’t make out from the distance but which makes Ana squeal and throw her arms around Geralt’s leg. 

Jaskier laughs, out loud and unashamed, at the wide-eyed look on the Geralt’s face. 

Yasemin can’t help but smile as well. She doesn’t stop until later, after final goodbyes have been said, when she sees her coin purse sitting in the middle of the table, exactly as full as when she’d given it to Geralt several days ago. 

Then, Yasemin cries. 

The tears are happy, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was 100% Geralt who bought Ana a present because he felt shitty about getting blood on her toy. Not that he'd ever admit that. But Jaskier knows. And we do. Actually, everyone knows Geralt is a sweetheart.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes Ansel and three of his men to drag the struggling Witcher to the healer’s hut and, Ansel is fairly sure, they only succeed because, despite his violent protests, the Witcher is in dire need of the healer’s services. Mariam’s eyebrows shoot up when they stumble through the door, but she quickly recovers from her shocked surprise when the Witcher, having shaken off their hands, collapses to his knees with a pained grunt. 

“What happened?” she demands as she comes to crouch in front of the Witcher, grabbing his chin to look into his pitch black eyes. “Do you have his bags?” 

Erion steps forward and carefully deposits the Witcher’s belongings within Mariam’s reach. The Witcher reaches out to snatch his things back with a low growl, but pitches over instead when he loses his balance. He takes Erion down with him when the boy tries to steady him, sending them both sprawling across the floor. 

“If you were so kind as to stop being utterly useless,” Mariam snaps, glaring up at Ansel, “I’d appreciate your help.” 

Together, they roll the Witcher onto his uninjured side so Mariam can inspect his wounds. She hisses quietly at the sight of the hole in the Witchers abdomen. “What happened?” she asks again as she starts rummaging through one of the Witcher’s bags. 

“Lord Greyvon hired him to kill the basilisk,” Ansel says, grimacing. “The thing’s dead, all right, but I don’t think he’s far behind.” 

He startles when the Witcher sits up suddenly, a sneer on his face. “I’m fine.” 

That statement is belied by the way he collapses back again a moment later, whole body seizing up for a moment before he starts spasming uncontrollably. Ansel gives Mariam a look he hopes conveys, “I told you so.” 

“Basilisk venom won’t kill a Witcher,” Mariam disagrees. She uncaps a small vial she’s pulled out of the Witcher’s bag, unceremoniously upending it over the wound. The Witcher roars, his fingers leaving bloodied scratches on the floor. “Its effects aren’t pleasant, though. He’ll be weakened, feverish for several days. He needs rest and—”

“No,” the Witcher says from between clenched teeth, “I—the bard. I need to find the bard.” 

Ansel frowns at Mariam, who only shrugs in response. It’s Erion who pipes up with, “A bard was supposed to entertain at the Hog’s Head all week, but he never showed.” 

“Well.” Mariam looks sternly down at the Witcher. “You’re in no state to go out looking for him, especially not in this weather. The venom might not kill you, but in the condition you’re in, the cold will surely do you in.” 

The Witcher shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I need to find him.” 

Ansel glances over when he feels Erion’s elbow nudge his side, sighing in exasperation at the look in the boy’s eyes. Erion’s always been soft-hearted, kind to a fault, and Ansel hadn’t been too sure about taking him on as an apprentice, at first, hadn’t thought the boy to have the stomach needed to hunt. Turns out, though, Erion’s the best tracker Ansel’s come across in years, always a step ahead of the deer or boar, and in the months Erion’s been training under Ansel and his men, Ansel has developed a very unfortunate soft spot for the boy. 

Which is why he finds himself saying, “We’ll search for the bard.” 

Erion beams and doesn’t stop even when Ansel cuffs the back of his head. 

It’s easy enough to figure out whereabouts the bard must have gotten lost once the Witcher reluctantly tells them what village he’d been staying in last and, soon enough, they’re heading out, blankets wrapped around them over their cloaks to keep out the icy wind. 

“What do you figure the Witcher wants with a bard?” Idris asks after a while, sounding curious. 

Dorian, grinning, reaches out to slap his shoulder. “You know how bards are. Probably stole his coin.”

Idris grins right back. “Or fucked his favourite whore.” 

Their snickering cuts off abruptly when Erion says, “I think he was scared.” 

Ansel shoots him a sceptical look, then turns to level a scolding one at Idris and Dorian when they start howling with laughter. Erion’s shoulders hunch up around his ears and he spurs his horse on to get some space between them. 

“We’ve talked about this,” Ansel sighs tiredly, “don’t tease the poor kid.” 

Idris and Dorian look sheepish, at least, muttering grudging apologies. They care for Erion, Ansel knows, and are fiercely protective of him like older brothers, but, unfortunately, older brothers are also complete and utter bastards most of the time. Ansel should know, he’s got four of them himself. 

Before Ansel can start his by now well-practiced lecture, however, Erion calls from up ahead, “There! I think I see someone!”

And, sure enough, a moment later they’re all close enough to see the man painstakingly tromping through the almost knee-high snow. There’s a lute strapped to his back, so Ansel’s confident they’ve got the right person. 

Erion is off his horse before Ansel’s even come to a full halt, because of course he is. He wraps one of the spare blankets they brought around the man’s shoulders, earning himself a blue-lipped smile. 

“You the bard that was supposed to arrive ‘couple of days ago?” Ansel asks, looking the man up and down. He’s shivering hard, teeth clattering, so he only nods. “The hell were you thinking, travelling these here roads on foot?” 

The bard is stiff enough that he nearly falls right back off Erion’s horse before Erion quickly slides in place behind him and holds him steady. “Th—thank you,” he manages, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “And I ha—had a mount, but, well. If the—the price for a horse se—seems too good to be true, it pro—probably is.” 

Dorian huffs out in disgust. “Never buy from Horgus.” 

The bard nods. “Lea—learned that lesson the hard way.” 

“Come on.” Ansel pulls at the reins to turn his horse around. “The town’s less than an hour’s ride away. We’ll have Mariam make sure you’re not about to lose any toes and find you some stew to warm you up.” 

Well. 

After they’ve dealt with whatever mess the bard’s gotten himself mixed up in with the Witcher.

By the time they reach Mariam’s hut, the bard is blinking sluggishly and barely able to keep himself awake. He leans heavily on Erion and Dorian as they make their way inside, stumbling over his own feet, but his head snaps up immediately at a sharp intake of breath from across the room. 

“Geralt,” the bard breathes quietly, even as the Witcher practically stalks towards him. 

Dorian moves away quickly, but Erion stays put, the fool boy. Ansel’s stomach drops when the Witcher raises a hand and mutters something under his breath, but both Erion and the bard merely gasp, the bard in relief and Erion in surprise. 

Erion finally lets go of the bard when the Witcher reaches for him, unexpectedly gentle as he tugs the bard close to press their foreheads together. 

“Are you hurt?” the Witcher asks, gruff, hands sliding over the bard’s shoulders, down his arms and then back up his sides until the bard grabs the Witcher’s hands and links their fingers together. 

“Stop fussing,” the bard chides, clearly amused. He settles one set of their hands over the bandages on the Witcher’s side. “I’m not the one who fought a basilisk and—” he cuts himself off sharply, peering around the Witcher, then yells, “Geralt!”

Chastised is not a look Ansel would’ve ever thought to see on a Witcher. 

“You know I’m immune to their venom—”

“And tell me, Geralt, since when are you immune to being pierced right through your godsdamned stomach? You’re unbelievable, I—”

“Jaskier—”

“Oh, no! No! Do not even try to talk yourself out of this one, mister, nuh-uh.” 

Ansel watches, fascinated, as the bard keeps shouting at the Witcher while the Witcher, quite unsuccessfully, tries to get more than a word in edgewise to defend himself. He’d been prepared for an argument of an entirely different kind, though he’s certainly relieved that they don’t have a furious Witcher on their hands. 

Although a furious bard isn’t all that pleasant, either, as it turns out. 

(Erion’s face is bright red as he rushes down the stairs leading to the rooms above the tavern. He grabs Idris’ ale, ignoring his outraged yelp, and downs the whole thing in three big gulps. 

“You all right there, boy?” Ansel asks and Erion nods quickly, but doesn’t meet his eyes as he stutters out, “Yes, fine, perfectly fine. Handed over the coin an’ everything, like you told me.”

Ansel shares a confused look with Idris and Dorian, but decides to let it go for now. 

It’s later, after they’ve finished supper, that Dorian chokes on his own ale, coughing and spluttering. Idris claps him on the back, trying to hold back a smirk, and nods at the bar. 

Ansel cranes his neck to look. He easily spots the bard and, a second later, the unmistakable, mouth-shaped bruises littering the bard’s neck. 

“Aw, kid,” Ansel laughs and slings an arm around Erion’s shoulders to jostle him. “Didn’t knock, did ya?”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier, after days of watching Erion go all heart-eyed and blushy around Geralt: The crush that kid has on you is kind of adorable. 
> 
> Geralt, nearly falling off Roach: The _what?_
> 
> Can Geralt warm people up by using Igni? Well, now he can.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks, the last chapter. Though certainly not the last thing I'll write about these two idiots. I have ideas. Now I just need time.

It’s nearing midday and the stables are mostly empty when Geralt returns, apart from the stable hand’s young boy who’s crouching by the cat that’s just had her litter a couple of days ago. The boy glances up when the cat spots Geralt and hisses, his face breaking out into a beaming smile. 

“Roach!” he squeals as he jumps up and runs over, then, belatedly, tacks on, “Master Witcher.” 

Geralt watches, amused, as the boy stands on his toes to pet at Roach’s nose and scratch her chin. Roach obligingly lowers her head, basking in the attention, and eagerly snatches up the sugar cube the boy pulls out of his pocket. 

“Those are bad for her teeth,” Geralt tells the boy as he dismounts, eyebrows rising when the boy looks up at him with big, round eyes, mouth pursed into a pout. 

“But she loves them!” 

Roach whinnies, as if agreeing, and butts her head against Geralt’s chest. Knowing when he’s outnumbered, Geralt lets the boy lead Roach to her spot and then goes about unsaddling her while the boy unfastens her halter. Roach is munching on something else once Geralt is finished, but the boy merely blinks up at him as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth when Geralt fixes him with a look.

He beams again when Geralt tosses him a coin, petting Roach’s flank before scampering off with a bright, “Thank you, Master Witcher!” 

It’s novel, still, to have the townsfolk treat him as one of their own, even after close to a month of being part of their community. Novel and slightly unsettling, albeit not entirely unpleasant.

The mayor had rewarded him richly for killing the kikimora that’d been terrorising the men working around the swamp and by the next day, once word had spread, people from all across the countship had begun approaching him for help. With Jaskier not yet fully recovered from the nasty cough that had plagued him for weeks, the decision to stay for a while hadn’t been a difficult one to make. 

Jaskier had been thrilled at the suggestion and has been spending his nights entertaining at the local taverns, while splitting his days between accompanying Geralt and earning himself some extra coin from the town’s upper class who have enough to spare to insist their children are in dire need of musical education. 

Roach’s inquisitive snort is what pulls Geralt from his thoughts. He strokes a hand along her back as he walks around her, frowning at the folded piece of parchment he finds pinned to her feeding trough. 

It’s blank, not only unaddressed but also devoid of any and all scents that could give Geralt any clues. Magically sealed, Geralt realises once he picks it up, feeling the faint energy pouring off it. Even the wax holding it together is nothing more than an unassuming white splotch, nothing there to indicate who it might be from. 

Geralt picks at the seal and the instant it cracks—

Blood.

Jaskier. 

Jaskier’s blood. 

A single drop of it, but that’s more than enough. As Geralt watches, the blood begins to move and twist across the parchment, painting a map Geralt soon realises shows the very town he’s in. He recognises the farmland surrounding it and the abandoned watchtower atop the hill to the West, the last thing to appear on the page before everything stills. 

Geralt flips the parchment and lets out a growl at the insignia now printed across it; the mercenary guild. 

His stomach churns with guilt as he spins around and stalks back out of the stable, the parchment crumpled in his clenched fist. Jaskier has a talent for ruffling feathers, that much is true, though few of the people he’s crossed possess the funds to hire mercenaries to go after him. 

No, this message is clearly meant for Geralt. And Jaskier got caught in the middle of it. 

Despite everything in him yelling at him to hurry, Geralt takes the long way to the tower in order to be able to approach it unseen. The two men posted outside to guard the entrance fall before they so much as notice that something’s wrong, but Geralt barely spares them a thought. The tower is small and it’s a matter of minutes to locate Jaskier and the remaining mercenaries in the former dungeons. 

Keeping to the shadows, Geralt takes in the scene in front of him. Jaskier is gagged and bound at the wrists, though he appears relatively unharmed where he’s sitting in the corner of one of the cells. Two of the mercenaries are pacing the corridor outside the cells and a third is perched on a stack of old crates, plucking at the strings of Jaskier’s lute. 

Jaw clenched, Geralt steps out of the dark. 

The pacing guards freeze, hands quickly moving to their swords, but the one obviously in charge shakes his head at them. He sits up a little straighter, a faux-pleasant smile on his face as he waves Geralt closer. 

“The Butcher of Blaviken,” he greets and strums the lute again. “We were expecting you.” 

Somewhere to the side, Jaskier makes an offended noise at the mistreatment of his beloved instrument. Geralt keeps his eyes firmly on the mercenary leader. 

“What do you want?” 

The leader laughs, sounding delighted. “No chit-chat, I can appreciate that. Well, Butcher, what would you say if I told you I had a proposition for you? A mutually beneficial one, of course.” 

Geralt allows himself a snort. “Highly doubt that.” 

“You see,” the leader continues, ignoring Geralt entirely, “more and more often, it’s not people we’re paid to hunt down no more. It’s creatures, monsters. More your area of expertise, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Geralt says nothing. Not that he seems to be expected to. 

“So, we thought to ourselves, what we need is one of them Witchers. Someone with the knowledge, the skill to find and kill the ugly things the people want gone. Can you imagine, Butcher, the fortune we could make if we combined your experience with our connections all over the Continent? We’d all be rich men within the year.” 

“What if I refuse?” Geralt asks, although the current situation makes it fairly obvious. 

The leader leans forward, elbows on his knees and grin going sharp around the edges. “We hope you won’t, of course, but if you do, well. I’m sure you can make an educated guess, Butcher.” 

Jaskier yells something through the gag, words muffled but furious. It makes the leader laugh, eyes sparkling dangerously when they meet Geralt’s. “Feisty one, isn’t he?”

He stands, then, clearly believing himself to have the upper hand as he moves closer towards Geralt. Geralt can feel the atmosphere shift, can feel the other mercenaries taking their cues from their leader, but he forces himself to remain still and bide his time. 

“I’ve heard whispers, you know,” the leader hums as he keeps approaching, “about you and your bard. Rumour has it he is very dear to—”

The wet, choked sound the leader makes when Geralt rams his sword through his throat is incredibly satisfying. His eyes are wide, with shock and surprise, the lute falling from his hand when he brings it up to fruitlessly paw at his throat. 

“He is,” Geralt says, pulls the sword free and hurls it backwards without looking, knowing it has found its target when he hears the thud of one of the other mercenaries hitting the stone floor. 

The leader is still gurgling helplessly when Geralt turns around and advances on the last remaining man, backing him up against the wall. He’s visibly shaking, pleas falling from his lips, but Geralt isn’t listening; he shoves the man, his head hitting the wall with an unhealthy crunching noise, then pins him there with the tip of one of his daggers pressed under the man's trembling chin. 

“Go,” Geralt growls, “and tell your guild that next time, I won’t be as lenient.”

The man doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Geralt waits until he can’t hear him running anymore and then he’s across the corridor in a flash, easily ripping the rusted cell door from its hinges. Jaskier has managed to stand and is already holding out his hands so Geralt can, carefully, slide the dagger under the rope binding them together. 

As soon as his hands are free, Jaskier pulls the gag from his mouth, coughing and breathing harshly. Geralt ghosts his fingers over the bruise he can already see forming around Jaskier’s eye, then takes one of Jaskier’s hands in both of his, rubbing a thumb over the raw skin of his wrist. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else? What did they—”

He’s cut off by Jaskier’s insistent lips on his. Geralt melts into the kiss automatically, eyes fluttering shut of their own accord. They snap open again when he tastes salt and he moves back just enough to cup Jaskier’s face in his hands, wiping at the tears on Jaskier’s cheeks. 

“Jaskier?” he asks, eyes roaming over Jaskier’s body, trying to find what’s wrong.

But Jaskier is smiling and shaking his head, reaching out to mirror Geralt. “Who’d have thought?” he chuckles, still sniffling quietly. “Geralt of Rivia being sweet.” 

Geralt frowns even as he turns his head enough to kiss Jaskier’s palm. It takes him longer than he would ever admit out loud. “You are,” he murmurs, pulling Jaskier close to tuck his face into his neck, breathing him in. Quiet, a little unsure, “You know you are.” 

“Well, I suspected, of course,” Jaskier teases. Geralt feels his lips on his temple, his smile against his skin. “Though hearing it out loud certainly is nice, I must say.” 

Geralt holds him tighter, says firmer, “You are, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier kisses him again. “I know, Geralt. I know.” 

(Geralt can feel the patrons’ eyes on him as Jaskier croons out _dear to me, oh oh_ with his eyes closed and his fingers sure on the strings of his lute. 

Geralt doesn’t look away from him. 

When Jaskier meets his eyes across the room and smiles, Geralt answers in kind.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: That totally counted as a love confession.   
> Geralt: *just happy he doesn't actually have to say The Words out loud*

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works), or come over and say hi on [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Dear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25102456) by [nildot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nildot/pseuds/nildot)




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